


All That Never Was

by Teekoness (Wreath_of_Laurels)



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Brothers, Family Feels, Gen, President ShinRa's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:46:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24306133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wreath_of_Laurels/pseuds/Teekoness
Summary: In the wake of Midgar’s destruction, Rufus remembers a brother who was never truly his.---A look at the relationship between Rufus and Lazard over the years.
Relationships: Lazard Deusericus & Rufus Shinra
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic of mine. Originally published in 2010.

Title: All That Never Was

Chapter: 1

Characters: Rufus, 

Rating: PG

Genre: Drama, Family

Summary:

In the wake of Midgar’s destruction, Rufus remembers a brother who was never truly his.

Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core, Advent’s Children, Before Crisis or Dirge of Cerberus, nor do I make any profits due to them.

\---

The gulls won’t let him sleep. The man can hear them in the distance, their voices shrill and angry.

His hospital bed is cheap. The blanket covering him smells faintly of mildew, sour and bitter all at once. It’s moth-eaten, speckled with tiny holes, letting in thin tendrils of icy air which dance and tease his bandages, aggravating the ragged flesh beneath.

The mattress that holds him is ancient but at least it’s warm. The springs didn’t even bother to put up a fight simply having let his weight sink down into its depths. There it cradles him ever so gently as if he were little more than a thing of glass, a figurine in human form.

 _Here, I should be able to rest_ , he thinks lying there. It all he wants.

But the gulls call. And his eyes open. And he is denied.

The room is dark.

The door, far from where he lies, has a fuzzy, indistinct presence. Its outline is barely noticeable, making them seem more like the idea of a door rather than the real thing.

He can hear the soft beeping of a heart monitor nearby, its rhythm steady and strong. But wrapped in velvet blackness it seems such a trivial thing, little more than a whisper.

The gulls _scream_.  
  
\----  
  
He was five and the ShinRa building was really, really, really big.

He was trying to hide from Miyuki. She was really cool since she was a Turk and had lots of guns, even if she was an old one. (She’s got _grey_ hair and he’s only seen one other Turk like that.) Turks are supposed to be really good at finding people and things so it would be _really_ cool if he succeeded in hiding.

The ShinRa building was really, really, really, _really_ big. Too bad there was no good place to hide.

He was currently in the stairwell at the fifty-first floor, sitting on the first upward step.

No one ever uses the stairs but it was still a bad hiding place. It was way too boring. All there was to see is grey concrete stairs going up and up and down and down. Maybe the occasional broom. Really boring.

He figures a good hiding place should be interesting but there was nowhere else. He couldn’t leave. There were people everywhere and they all knew him. This wasn’t the first time Father had taken him to work; he liked showing Rufus to the workers. Rufus was always supposed to smile and be nice.

_Smile Rufus. Make sure they always see you smiling._

If they saw him by himself, they’d him give candy and presents and tell him how cute and special he is, then they’d drag him back to Father. They pretended to care.

They didn’t—

A high pitched wail ripped through the air, the sound of rusty metal. With that, the gigantic door labled ‘51’ partially opened. A figure begins to emerge. Both his arms were filled to with files, rendering them useless for holding the door open. So the figure kicked it open with a foot, and then, while the door was still open, dashed into the stairwell.

And into Rufus.

The boy never stood a chance. Files flew in all directions and Rufus was kicked off his makeshift throne, landing hard on the concrete. Before he could stop it, he let out an indignant squeak.

That sounded really stupid. No! That wasn’t his fault. It _wasn’t._ The other guy’s the one who did it.

He pushed himself to feet, sucked in his stomach and drew himself to his full three foot and one inch height (He made Miyuki measure him that morning.) and was about to glare at his assaulter.

He stopped.

The other guy was just a teenager. Thin and lanky, he wore a fuzzy brown suit that was way too big for him. At his waist, a belt was tightly cinched up, creating large waves in the fabric of the pants. Meanwhile, the arms and legs of the outfit rolled up multiple times; even then, the pants still dragged on the floor covering his feet. His hair was cropped close to his head, only a thin fuzz of blond remaining. Weird.

“Who are you?” Rufus demanded. He never saw any other kids in the building except the SOLDIER cadets but this teen wasn’t wearing any uniform.

The new arrival wasn’t really paying attention. He’d been knocked to the ground as well. He quickly brushed dust of the seat and knees of his ugly suit, rubbed his hands; then, he eyed the scattered files, grumbling quietly, rescuing one that was on the edge of falling down the hole between the staircases.

“Who are you?” Rufus said again, raising his voice. He should pay attention.

The teenager looked over his shoulder at him, almost lazily. He paused when he saw Rufus and all at once, his face tightened, his every feature frozen. “Lazard,” he whispered.

It seemed like he was waiting for something, his gaze boring into the younger boy. As to what, Rufus had no clue and after a few moments, the teen said: “My name is Lazard _Deusericus_. “ He drew out the syllables out of the last word, pronouncing each one clearly and precisely.

Rufus wasn’t really what he was supposed to do. Father wouldn’t like that. You _always_ had to know what you had to do. If you didn’t you were stupid and stupid people were losers.

Losers were the worst.

Eventually he settled on something.

“Okay,” Rufus said. “Whatcha doing?”

“Pardon?”

“Why are you here?” Rufus elaborated generously.

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah. You have to answer me. Because if you don’t, you’re being rude.” He HAD to. Nobody was allowed to be rude to a ShinRa.

“I work here.”

Lazard was glowering down at him now. Though frankly, Rufus wasn’t too impressed. Miyuki was a lot scarier than him when she angry. Besides he wasn’t allowed to hurt Rufus. Nobody could. Nobody except Father.

“You can’t work here.”

“Pardon?”

“Everyone here wears _proper_ suits,” Rufus stated airily and watched curiously as the skin on Lazard’s face tightened even more. “Yours isn’t proper.” He wondered if it tightened even more, would it rip?

He eyed the older boy’s face for signs of tears. There were small reddish patches on his cheeks and an even larger one covering most of his neck, but his skin was disappointingly intact. Boring.

Rufus was even more disappointed when the teenager stiffly turned his back and begin retrieve the other files from the floor.

“Your suit’s ugly.”

Lazard grabbed few errant papers, squinting at the writing on them. Rufus rather thought it made him look like he needed to use the bathroom.

“It’s the colour of poop.”

Lazard put the papers in a red folder.

“It doesn’t even fit and it’s _old._ ”

Lazard stacked the files and carefully picked them up.

“I’m going to have a real suit one day and it’s going to the best one in the world.” No one would have as suit like his. No one.

“Excuse me. You are in my way.”

He looked up to see Lazard towering over him, files neatly in hand. His face was entirely blank.

“Okay,” Rufus said, quickly stepping to side.

Lazard gave him a short, crisp nod, then proceeded up the stairs. He hadn’t even looked at the younger boy.

Rufus stood there and craned his head backwards, watching as the figure climb upwards circle upwards into the seemingly endless stairwell, bit by bit becoming smaller and smaller and smaller.

It wasn’t right.

Before he knew it, his legs were moving and he was running up and up and up, until Lazard was right there, his really ugly suit clearly visible.

“Wait,” Rufus squeaked. 

“What is it now?” Lazard said, voice as tight as his face had once been.

“Uh, uh, uh….”

“What _is it_?” Lazard demanded, voice as tight as his face had once been.

“Uhhhm…” What was he supposed to say? “You told me your name, but I never told you mine.” He stretched his right hand out and up towards the older boy. “I’m Rufus... I mean I am Rufus ShinRa.”

“I know,” the older boy said hesitantly.

Rufus’ hand hung in the air for quite a while. It was getting tiring and his arm shook a little. Wasn’t Lazard going to shake it? He was looking at his arm as if it was bad or something. Did he do something wrong?

Finally, the older boy shuffled his files to one hand and they shook. Rufus’ hand seemed very little when surrounded by the older boy’s. Lazard’s hand was kinda sweaty making it a little gross, but for the most part, he didn’t mind.

Rufus examined the older boy and realised he was smiling, just a little. So Rufus smiled back. It wasn’t even hard. It happened all by itself. It wasn’t like when Father told him to do it. It was easy.

It was then he realised that Lazard had blue eyes, just like him.

“Well, I’ve gotta go, Rufus ShinRa. Some of us have to _earn_ our suits.”

That…. That. Was. Not. Right.

“Hey! I can do it. I can earn my suit! I can do anything!” The glare that Rufus stopped earlier came back in full force.

And all Lazard did was laugh and laugh. And he was still smiling. Big, bright and wide.

“I can _. I can._ ” Rufus yelled. His chest was tight. His fists were balled at his sides.

And when at last Lazard stopped, he looked down at Rufus and said something that made it even worse.

“Of course you can.”

Complete and utter condescension. Lies. He was used to lies, because everyone pretended to care about Rufus and they never did. 

His eyes were wet, and in the midst of tears, Lazard’s form became blurry and twisted as if he’s turned into one big monster. Like Daddy. 

And that was right and true. Because Lazard was a monster. ( _He was. He was. He was._ )

And it hurt. And it was wrong and bad and horrible. And all Rufus could do was watch as the monster reached for him. One terrible claw slowly coming for him…

  
  


…only to be met by navy blue.

  
  


Miyuki was standing in between them. Short and stout and _solid_. Her hard brown eyes focussed firmly on Lazard and stayed there for a long time, before turning themselves on Rufus, carefully scanning him from head to toe.

“Rufus, your father is expecting you,” she said, her voice expressionless.

So Rufus went with her.

She didn’t take his hand. She didn’t hug him. She didn’t tell him it was all going to be alright.

She didn’t pretend and he was glad.


	2. Chapter 2

_I can. I can._

The gulls continue to sing, their voices raspy. The sound was like sandpaper on the man’s ears.

_I can’t._

* * *

The buildings of the sector four plate were steel and concrete. Even in broad daylight, it made the entire world seem awash with grey.

So in contrast the park was a bit strange to thirteen year old Rufus. The grass, thick underneath his feet was a fresh green, an unusual colour to see in such large quantities. He’d only ever seen it in pictures, paintings or the occasional salad. It was nothing like the sickly green by-product of mako-lights that sometimes stained walls and ceilings.

“I am not a great man. Nor a particularly good one,” President ShinRa said. He stood on a small podium wearing simple clothing, a maroon flannel shirt and a pair of beige slacks. Just beside him stood Rufus wearing similarly casual clothes, a T-shirt and jeans.

A crowd surrounded him, filled with ShinRa employees, gawkers and more than a healthy number of reporters. All of whom where utterly transfixed on the president.

“But I am a man with responsibilities.” Rufus’ father spoke hesitantly, his face slightly flushed.

It seemed all so real. From Father’s looks, the casual clothes to the awkwardness of Father’s speech, making it seem almost spontaneous. Rufus knew better of course. Father had specifically requested the clothes for the occasion and for the last few days, he’d even drilled Rufus on what his reactions were supposed to be, practicing it with him a few times. Anything less than perfection was not an option.

It was because of this that Rufus found himself scanning the crowd for one particular individual. He found him near the back. Lazard’s hair had grown out, smooth blond tresses lightly skimming the top of his shoulders, his eyes firmly fastened on Rufus’ father.

“Midgar has been good to me and I am a man with responsibilities.”

Rufus waited.

“I have a responsibility to my son.”

Lazard’s reaction was miniscule, a slight twitching of the face. It was there and then it was gone, vanished under a mask of mild interest that the rest of the ShinRa employees sported. So quick was it that it could’ve been a trick of the light, but Rufus was sure he’d seen it. He was _sure_.

“I have a responsibility as a father,” continued the president. Rufus wanted to watch further but he had a job to do, and made himself tear his eyes away from Lazard.

He tightly gripped the fabric of his jeans tightly and examined his shoes carefully, faking a shy expression. They were sneakers and had gigantic red logos adorning the sides and backs. They had never been properly broken in, making feet ache. He found himself longing for the soft black leather of dress shoes.

“Today is my son’s thirteenth birthday—the beginning of his journey to become a man—and I have a responsibility to lead by example.” With that his father pulled Rufus up onto the podium where he put a firm hand on his son. Rufus had to keep himself from stiffening, letting the leaden weight of it push hard into the meat of his shoulder.

“Rufus,” his father said, looking deeply into his son’s face, “the City of Midgar has welcomed our family. Trusted us. Helping us earn the bread we eat and the clothes on our backs… So for your birthday, I give you an important lesson. This park is dedicated to you. Named with your name. It’s for the common people of this fair city. A small payment for all they have given us.”

“Because I want you to remember…” President ShinRa waved a beefy hand towards the park. The other one dug painfully into Rufus. “…a ShinRa always pays his debts.”

The crowd applauded and Rufus covered his face in a small grin and looked cautiously up at his father. The president gazed down at him, giving his son the smallest of nods.

Rufus felt his stomach flip, fighting down the urge to grin even wider. It wouldn’t look real if he did.

Nonetheless, the temptation was almost overwhelming. Maybe the speech and everything were all fake, but Father had fooled them and Rufus had helped. He’d shown he could be useful.

Even more importantly, his father had _noticed_.

“Rufus! Young Mr. ShinRa!” Reporters rushed towards him, all ready to see who could shove their cameras or recorder closest to his face. “Can we have a moment of your time, please?”

This was his moment. This was the time he could prove he could be useful in his own right.

 _Yes, it a slightly unusual present, but Father…_ No, too formal. _...Yeah, it’s not a normal present, but Dad’s a really good guy. I mean I’ve never really seen a place for kids to play here, so that he’d do that…_ That was better.

Of course, the park won't last. Nothing truly grows in Midgar. It might live for a while but it will never thrive, and bit by bit, the patient metallic giant will strangle as it does all things. 

The reporters were almost there now and Rufus prepared himself to meet them, squaring his shoulders and plastered a nervous expression on his face. It had to seem real afterall.

“Rufus, how do you feel about—”

President ShinRa got there first. “Really, ladies and gentlemen,” he chastised. “Give the poor boy a break. He has already endured an entirely unorthodox present for his birthday from his old man.” The reporters tittered. “Now you want to take up all his free time.—Honestly, if you have any further questions, you’re welcome to ask me.”

“But Father, it’s oka…” Rufus began but stopped quickly as his father leaned down.

Framed by plump smiling features, Father’s eyes were two chips of ice.

“Enjoy your birthday, son,” he said and with that gave the boy a small shove.

Rufus spent the next while making small talk with some of the crowd members. Where did he go to school? Who were his friends? Even stupid questions about things like the amount of his allowance or his favourite colour.

He could’ve done it in his sleep. He’d been doing this as far back as he could remember and it never changed. It probably never would. Why they even cared, he’d never know…

Actually, they probably didn’t.

The number of people surrounding Rufus was dwindling rapidly. His father was off making another impassioned speech and one by one, the men and women talking to Rufus made excuses, and then rushed over to where the president was without so much as a glance backward.

Before he knew it, they were almost all gone. Not that he cared of course. It was nice to have a break.

As to what to do in the mean time… He should probably look around the park. People might ask him about it and it would be wrong to appear ignorant about a place that bore his own name. _There is no room for ignorance, Rufus._

Passing the crowd, he noticed a playground. It seemed as good a place as any to start.

It was then he noticed Lazard. The man was standing at the back of the horde, looking almost bored. He spotted Rufus, raised an eyebrow, and then headed towards him.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

The mob was continuing to grow around Father. They gazed at him with admiration, curiosity and respect. “Alright.”

They walked in silence for a time. Saplings dotted the landscape, their trunks the warm brown that could only be found in living wood. Rufus couldn’t help but note how skinny they were. Around the edges of the park thick skyscrapers reared high into the sky, making the little trees seem pitiful in comparison.

He eyed Lazard. “I see you got a real suit.” It was a nice one, a deep blue pinstriped blazer accented by a tie of the same colour and contrasted by a pair of perfectly pressed white pants and matching gloves. Really nice, the tailored lines and smooth contours made Lazard seem all the taller.

“I guess I did at that,” Lazard said. The corners of his lips twitched. “I have to admit I’m surprised you don’t have one on. Don’t you like them anymore?”

“I’ve got lots of suits.” Frankly, he wished he was wearing one now.

“Of course you—” Rufus stopped at this but the words trailed off, and instead Lazard said: “Of course.”

They meandered on until finally they reached the playground. Lazard gestured at the swings before settling into one.

Rufus merely stared at the structure. It was bright yellow; there apparently were racing cars, ambulances, police cars and fire trucks painted on top of it. Altogether it looked really ugly. Why would anyone want to use such this thing, let alone children?

“You sit on swings, Rufus. You do know that don’t you?” This broke the boy out of his thoughts.

“I do,” Rufus snapped before briskly seating himself in the swing next to Lazard.

He moved a little too quickly, nearly falling out the back and had to grab the swing’s ropes to pull himself back up.

“I see you do.” The bastard seemed amused.

Rufus glowered at Lazard and found himself rather pleased when the man’s expression became somewhat uneasy.

If only it had been because of him. “Is there a reason _he’s_ following us?”

Rufus followed Lazard’s gaze to see a navy-dressed man. “Oh, that’s Tseng. He’s _mine_.”

Despite the distinct uniform, Tseng had been a nonentity during the president’s speech. Now that it was over, he’d seemed to pop in existence. Currently he was making a Turk hanging out at a playground seem like a perfectly normal occurrence.

It was kind of neat.

“Would he agree?”

“Not like _that_ ,” Rufus said. “He’s my bodyguard. He takes care of me.”

Not that he needed taking care of.

“It’s been a while, but didn’t you have a different Turk last time we met?” Lazard asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Rufus stated. It was over and done with.

“Brown eyes. Short and a bit broader than most women. Brown hair.”

“Grey. She had grey hair.” So few Turks had that hair colour. He’d never really thought about it.

“Where is she now?”

“She’s gone. Okay?” Rufus muttered. A year ago, Veld had sent her on assignment and she had never came back.

“I’m sorry.”

It had happened about a year ago. Father had never even told him, but that wasn’t his fault. Rufus should’ve figured it out for himself.

She had been gone for so long. It hadn’t even occurred to Rufus that she could die. Miyuki had been a fact of life. She’d been around as far back as he could remember. She’d always been there. So she always would be there. Or so he had thought.

She’d been gone for weeks and weeks. It hadn’t been until Tseng had appeared one day that it had finally sunk in. Even then it had taken ages to for him to work up the guts to ask Tseng about her, and even more time for him to stop expecting her to simply appear one day as if nothing happened.

He’d been so _stupid._

“If I may ask, what was her name?” Lazard said. He sounded almost gentle.

“Miyuki.”

“It’s a very pretty name.”

“I know—but she hated it. Said it was too girly a name for a Turk.” He had never understood why she didn’t change it.

“She seemed very protective of you.”

“It was her job.” She had never pretended otherwise.

Rufus could hear the brush of sand on plastic and realised his feet had moving of their own accord, unconsciously digging a trench in the sand below the swings. He hadn’t been paying attention, letting everything come out like he was five again.

That was not acceptable.

“Why are you even asking this?”

“Let’s say I’m very curious about ShinRa Incorporated.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“That’s all you’re going to get.”

”But you weren’t asking about the company. You were asking about me and mine.”

Lazard sighed, rubbing his temples. “I was. Wasn’t I?” He shifted slightly, his plastic seat squeaking.

He seemed to be mulling something over for a moment before answering: “I guess I wonder what your life is like. Bodyguards. Money. Lots of fancy suits. Son to the richest man in the world.” At this, Lazard let out a bark of rough laughter. “But I digress. I’m sure I’m not the only who’s wondered about such things.”

Rufus wanted to fidget but settled for picking at his T-shirt instead. The thing was way too big for him and had a picture of a monkey snowboarding on the front of it. It wasn’t the sort of thing he liked. It wasn’t him.

“It’s… busy,” Rufus said. “I’ve got lots of tutors and I’m expected learn about the business _._ Tseng teaches me sometimes.” Business. Fighting. Politics…

The things that let a person control the world. Things that would teach him to control _his_ world. He’d dress the way he wanted. He’d act the way he wanted. He’d be able to keep everything, _everyone_ he wanted and dispose of the rest.

He wasn’t stupid. Probably no one else learned those sort of things. He was probably unusual when it came to his education. Special. Alone. _You’re not one of them, Rufus._

…but could Lazard really be considered one of ‘them?’

Sound casual. It would go better if he sounded casual. “What was it like when you were my age?” Rufus asked.

“Hard.”

A silence seemed to descend and stayed there for what seemed like hours. The only sound was the pounding of Rufus’ heart.

“I was ‘hired’ by the company at about your age. I thought it was my way out of the Slums for me and my mother, a way to improve things. I was younger… different from everyone else. The employees thought I’d been given a free pass and they let me know it. As if _it_ was my fault

“They never trusted me to do my job, always looking over my shoulder, waiting for me to fail. Criticising _everything_. There was never any room for mistakes… Just like the Slums.”

“I know what’s that’s like,” Rufus said quietly.

Lazard eyed him for a second. “No, you don’t,” he said. Letting out a rough bark of laughter, he brought a white-gloved hand around, landing it on top Rufus’ head.

The boy froze at the touch before reminding himself that this sort of thing happened to normal children all the time. Wasn’t he supposed to be acting like one? Either way, it wasn’t like it felt wrong. The fingers danced back and forth—apparently messing up his hair—made his scalp tingle a little but other than that it was fine.

They continued to sit there for a while, in the mid-afternoon sun, taking in blue of the sky and the _green_ of the park in silence. Rufus thought it actually felt… good.

He wondered if he could ask Lazard more questions.

“Rufus! Lazard! I wasn’t aware that you two knew each other.”

Father had arrived. The blinding camera flashes indicating his mob of reporters were close behind, and Tseng had once again disappeared.

Lazard was on his feet instantly, marching over to greet Rufus’ father. “President ShinRa, it’s an honour as always.” They shook briefly. “I noticed young Rufus exploring and thought if he was half the man his father was...”

“You—as always—flatter me. Unfortunately given my ‘roundness,’ I suspect my little boy is a great deal _less_ than that.”

“So formal?” he queried, gesturing to Lazard’s clothing. “I did give permission for my employees to relax. After all, birthdays are a time to have fun. A way to to get away from the office.”

“Forgive me, sir. It took me a lot of hard work to earn this suit,” Lazard replied, calmly straightening his blazer. “I’m not ready to give it up just yet.”

“And I’m not ready for you to give it up. You fit it too well.” The president laughed genially. “Rufus, come join us.”

Up until then, Rufus had been quietly taking this all in, a cold sensation growing in the pit of his gut. He mechanically got up and stood directly in front of his father, ignoring the familiar rough grip on his shoulders.

“You could due to watch Mr. Deusericus here, son. When he first joined the company, he could barely read. Look at him now! Only twenty and already the head of our Human Resource department…” Father said. He stroked his blond moustache thoughtfully. “Hmmm… Lazard?”

“Yes sir?” He seemed so alert and confident.

“By any chance would you be interested in talking to the reporters. Your story would make for excellent human interest.”

“I live to serve,” Lazard said wryly. He was professional and sleek.

“Hah! Good man,” President ShinRa rumbled, clapping him on the back.

Why had Rufus been so _stupid_? So _naïve?_

No. Nothing had changed. It didn’t matter. Not at all.

With that, Lazard and Rufus shared a gaze and a smile.

“Lazard.”

“Rufus.”

Twin smiles as bright and shiny as well-made plastic.

Then the two men left and the boy watched them go. He and Lazard were more alike than he’d hoped. Much more.

So this was his competition


	3. Chapter 3

** A/N: ** Originally this chapter and the upcoming one were one and the same. Alas, the boys refused to cooperate with me. I can’t help but wonder who’s writing the story—me or them?

Oh, for those not familiar with Before Crisis, Veld is Tseng’s predecessor as leader of the Turks.

** Disclaimer: ** I do not own Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core, Advent’s Children, Before Crisis or Dirge of Cerberus, nor do I make any profits due to them.   


\---

The smell of salt is thick in the air. The man can hear the smooth, rhythmic sound of the surf washing over sand.

The sharp metallic scents of the city are gone. The electronic buzz of lights and computers and cars are all gone. All of it is gone.

_ Gone gone gonegonegonegonegone. _

Competition?

He should’ve known better.

\---

The board room boasted a spectacular view. The massive window revealed a night sky inverted. The faint glimmering of the stars above seemed pathetically outmatched by their contemporaries below.

The true stars were the lights of Midgar. The harsh neon flicker from the commercial sector, the small glow of cars quickly zipping around like insects and the harsh glare of searchlights, all of this burnt hot and bright into the black of the night. A celestial dance in its on right as if someone had dragged the heavens down and chained them to the earth.

He could hear them now. The faint click of the room’s door opening and the soft padding of feet as the board entered.

Let them see him this way: standing tall and strong.

Let them see him with the city spanning out before him and into the horizon. All of its light shining a faint mako-green. All of it belonging to ShinRa.

Let them know it would all one day belong to Rufus.

He waited until he could hear the shuffling of them settling into their seats, before turning around, taking his place at the head of the table. One by one he looked at each of the room’s occupants, letting his gaze stay on each of them long enough for them to notice—Heidegger, Reeve, Veld and Lazard.

While Hojo’s absence was unremarkable—the man rarely could be ferreted from his lab for any reason short of a full-fledged emergency. Scarlet and Palmer’s was more conspicuous. They were over in  RocketTown. ShinRa No. 26 was launching in a month's time and they were busy with preparations.

This was a fact that Rufus was thankful for. Few things tested his patience like Palmer. Being stuck in a room with that pitiful excuse for a man was like being stuck in a room with a Fat Chocobo doing a mating dance. Perhaps amusing for a time, but ultimately loud, annoying and heavily taxing on the dignity of those around him. Would it be too much to hope for the launch to fail causing the rocket to squash the pest?

Veld, the Director of ‘Administrative Research,’ sat at Rufus’ left. His beard was slightly ragged and his dark brown hair had the occasional tangle in it giving him a slightly rough countenance, completely unlike the man behind him.

The man of course was Tseng. As always, the younger Turk was immaculately groomed and dressed, standing silently at Veld’s shoulder. Not at Rufus’, where he should be, but Veld’s.

So close he stood to the ShinRa heir that he could almost deceive himself. But faced with the reality: there might as well be a wall seperating them.

Tseng’s disappearance from his life was supposedly a gift from his father when he had turned eighteen. A sign that showed he was now an adult, no longer needed protecting. While the protection part was true—the gun tucked into holster under his arm was proof of that—but like most ‘gifts’ in the life of Rufus ShinRa, it was given without so much as a consultation.

Tseng had been snatched up the moment he’d been stolen from Rufus. He’d had to watch him being sent back and forth like Veld’s personal servant. Either on assignment for him or attached to firmly to his side. Rufus couldn’t help but wonder if Tseng pissed without Veld’s say-so.

To have Tseng here, paraded under his nose, was aggravating to say the least.

That would have to change.

“What’s the boy doing here?” Heidegger grumbled.

“The ‘boy’—as you so juvenilely call him—is the vice president of the company,” Lazard said. “He outranks you. Or do you need to be reminded?”

Heidegger cast an angry look at Lazard, but the Director of SOLDIER of barely seemed to notice it. Instead he seemed more interested in his gloves, lightly tugging at the base of one so that it fit his hand more snugly.

“Thank you, Lazard,” said Rufus, “but I can handle myself.”

“I never meant to imply otherwise, Mr. Vice President.” Lazard bowed his head slightly. “I merely dislike childishness _wherever_ I find it.”

Heidegger’s mouth opened and shut a few times before settling into a tight line, only marred by the sound of grinding teeth. For his own part, Rufus resisted the urge to do the same.

But no. Calmness was required or at least the facsimile of it. He was new to his position and first impressions were essential to get the respect he needed. To get riled up at such a small thing would cripple him in the eyes of the board; he’d be seen as another overly hormonal teenager. Besides, the barb may not have been directed at him.

Maybe.

“Perhaps we should get to the business at hand?” Reeve interjected. The engineer’s words were smooth and might have seemed natural if not for how quickly they were spoken.

“Certainly.” Rufus eyed the room and pushed some steel into his voice. “As you can see, my father is gone. I am in charge.”

Lazard’s face was entirely blank, Reeve sighed, Veld smirked, and Heidegger let out a low growl.

“Honestly, General Heidegger, you’d think I had just performed a coup d’état.” Perhaps it was wrong of Rufus to enjoy grandstanding so much, but everyone had their vices. “My father is alive and well. He is simply _busy_ and on a business trip at that.” He smiled graciously at him. “Perhaps you forgot about his trip to Wutai that was scheduled for this week? I was so _sure_ it was mentioned in our last meeting.— Either way there are some possible complications to the trip.”

Rufus nodded at Veld. “Please explain the situation to them.”

The head Turk didn’t miss a beat. “As you may be aware, the President has been doing some war propaganda in Wutai. One particular village there was undergoing a drought and he felt it was an ideal opportunity.”

Rufus couldn’t help but admire his father for the audacity of the plan.  Southern Wutai frequently endured droughts at this time of year; it was the summer after all. It was more than likely that the villagers not only were used to dealing with droughts, but had the situation well in hand. Nonetheless, it was resource-effective way of gaining positive publicity with minimal effort.

He watched as a silent message seemed to pass between the two Turks. Tseng produced a thick sheathe of papers—apparently materializing them out thin air—and began to pass them out.

Lazard flipped through his, and then turned his gaze firmly onto Veld. “While I am sure that I will enjoy reading this, but would I be wrong to suspect time is of the essence?—and thus we should immediately move to the issue at hand?”

Veld seemed to agree.“It turns out that some Wutaian soldiers are in the area. I don’t need to tell you how that might complicate things should they get wind of the President’s presence.”

“Surely his security detail can handle it?” Reeve said, his brow furrowing.

“It’s believed they’re Pagoda-trained.” Veld let the severity of the statement sink in.

Ninjas trained at the Pagoda of the Five Mighty Gods were legendary. Some said they were able to move in and out of the tightest security without so much as leaving a hair behind. Others spoke of their prowess as world-class thieves. In the more wilder rumours, they were little more than phantoms—the mere touch of their shadows deadly.

These stories were almost certainly blown out of proportion; nonetheless, the threat was real enough. They had decimated ShinRa forces in the past. It was time for Rufus to take firm action. “I gather our platoons in the area are currently engaged, so we will have to send reinforcements from here—” he began.

But before he could continue, Heidegger burst into the conversation: “I’ll start marshalling the army immediately.” He viciously fiddled with a star medallion on his chest. “A few platoons… a couple tanks just to be sure. We’ll flatten the area.”

For all of the General’s lack of decorum, it _was_ tempting.

“And destroy the President’s public relations work at the same time? He’d hardly be pleased,” Lazard commented, rolling his eyes before looking over at the Vice President, looking for assent.

“My father’s safety is paramount.” Father’s safety was _necessary_. He had barely gotten the vice presidency and even now the situation was utterly fragile. There had been a multitude of contenders for his spot. A single misstep would cause everything he worked for to crumble.

“ _Think_ for a moment, Rufus. Would he welcome the army trampling his work?”

“Better angry than dead,” he retorted but even as he said it, he had to admit Lazard was correct.

“…It doesn’t have to be a retrieval mission or a blatant attack,” he continued. “A smaller, more compact, more precise force could do it. The Turks would be ideal.” If done right, it would keep his father alive and keep Rufus on his ‘good’ side—provided such a thing existed.

“The Turks are—please take no offence, Veld—more of an information-gathering or covert operations group. While I’m sure they are more than capable of being in-city bodyguards. But defending against an out-right attack in unfamiliar territory? …I suspect that is more a job for SOLDIER,” Lazard said

If Veld was perturbed by this, he gave no sign. Instead he kept on smirking, seemingly enjoying the show without the slightest urge to comment.

But whereas Veld was watching both of them, the rest—Reeve, Heidegger and even Tseng—seemed to be focusing primarily on Lazard. It was as if someone had tied a string between Lazard and their eyes, drawing all the attention to him. Completely unacceptable.

It was then he noticed something. The first time _really_ noticed it. Lazard was sitting directly to Rufus’ right.

The position of the heir apparent.

Oh, it was to be expected. He’d grown up with Lazard as his father’s favourite. The man Rufus was supposed to be. Self-made. Self-sufficient. A man who had climbed his way to the top. Never mind Rufus had never been given the option to go anywhere near the bottom.

It was a sharp but necessary reminder that he could be replaced. Easily at that.

At that moment, there was a strong temptation to throw all Lazard’s suggestions to the wind and go with Heidegger’s crude suggestion. It would feel good to simply destroy any potential threats to his father. To cut through all the politics and propaganda. To be _free_ of it all.

“Sir?” came the tentative voice of Reeve.

But no.

“Pardon me, Director Tuesti,” he said. A few strands of his reddish-blonde hair had fallen out of place, lying across his field of vision. He grasped them carefully, feeling the smoothness under his fingers, before flipping the hair out of his face. “I was just taking a moment to think.”

To ignore Lazard’s advice now would just make him seem weaker. Petulant and foolish. Better to show the board he could not only take it, but improve upon it.

“You have good ideas… but I believe a mixed team would be better—both SOLDIERs and Turks. A small group is imperative. A large number would ruin any media work that has to be done, making it look like we’re strong-arming the area,” Rufus said. “The Turks will handle the reconnaissance, preferably neutralizing any threat to my father long before it arises. But should it be necessary, the SOLDIERs will be there to take care of any outright threats.” And because Rufus needed to seem a reasonable boss, he nodded and smiled at Lazard. “One of the First Class commanders should lead the mission. Sephiroth maybe?”

One day, there would be time for bluntness.

“I’d prefer not. Sephiroth, while certainly photogenic, would leave a negative impression on the Wutaians. He’d considered the hammer of ShinRa. He’d make our presence seem too aggressive. As for Genesis—”

Heidegger seemed delighted by this, bursting into the conversation. “Genesis? That would serve those noodle-nuts right. He’d boil the noodles right out of them! Gyahaha!”

That horse-laugh… There really were no words to describe it. The urge to cringe was monumental.

Reeve coughed. Tseng seemed to become even more quiet. Veld continued to smirk.

And Rufus found himself in an odd moment. He had turned to glower at the idiot, only to realise that Lazard was doing exactly the same thing. The other man caught his gaze, his expression unreadable.

They were really too much alike.

“As I was saying…” Lazard spared another glare in Heidegger’s direction. “…Genesis is equally unsuitable. Too temperamental to deal with such a delicate situation. I would recommend Angeal. He’s much better with people.” He paused and then, as if thinking of something, he said: “It’s a shame though.”

“How so?”

“It would be tempting to send them. I’d be spared them trashing the training rooms for a few weeks. Angeal’s the only one keeping them in check. With him gone, I’m afraid the problem will just get worse,” Lazard said, a small chuckle escaping his lips.

Rufus couldn’t help but join the other man in his amusement. Lazard’s statement was certainly no exaggeration. Genesis’ had a fondness for setting things on fire; meanwhile, Sephiroth had an unfortunate tendency of leaving leg-deep gouges in the training rooms’ floors. The destruction those two could leave in their wake was exorbitant. “I’ll forward you the extra funds for repairs.”

“Your generosity is appreciated.”

It was settled easily enough after that. At this point all that needed to be done was ironing out the details: supplies, support staff, transportation. For all of this, Rufus made himself out to be the ideal leader, listening carefully to suggestions and incorporating them smoothly.

Reeve had excused himself early, citing urgent work that needed to be done on the Sector Five reactor, and Heidegger left shortly afterwards to prepare the supplies needed for the mission.

“I’ll never understand what my father sees in that man,” Rufus muttered. He understood the reasons for the rest of the board: Veld was a Turk in every sense of the word, Scarlet ruled the Weapons Division with an iron fist, and Reeve essentially ran Midgar. Even Palmer, who far eclipsed Heidegger with his aggravating tendencies, was a genius in astrophysics and engineering. “Heidegger is utterly mediocre.”

“Have you considered that may be the point?” Lazard said, raising an eyebrow at him. “The General’s a decent resource manager, but the fact he requires overseeing for more important operations has its advantages.”

“Perhaps.” He mulled over the notion for a minute. The head of the army carried immense power. If Heidegger knew how to use his powers properly, he could potentially take over. Something the man was incapable of doing. Even if he wanted to, he would never garner the support. Anyone in their right mind would see Heidegger for the failure he was. “You may be right."

He’d tried for years to pierce the veil surrounding Father’s mind. It was galling to realise that Lazard could do it with barely a thought. _People only follow winners, Rufus._ So why was Lazard giving him all this free advice? Was it merely an attempt to show him up in front of the board? It would be so much easier to let him fail.

“Thank you,” Rufus said.  What was Lazard after?  “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“That’s part of the job,” Lazard replied.

A minute later, only Rufus and the Turks remained in the room.

“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to send Tseng to go on the mission. He’s just a kid but he knows the people and the lingo,” Veld said. He was still relaxing in his seat. That damned grin still present on his face and Tseng still glued to his shoulder.

“You can send him… But a ‘kid?’ Tseng hardly qualifies as a child anymore,” Rufus scoffed. Truthfully, he’d prefer for Tseng to stay in Midgar where he could keep an eye on him, but there was no real way to say it without revealing weakness.

“Well, kids have to grow up sometime.”

Finally Veld’s face relaxed, the smile vanishing under sagging folds of flesh and deeply-set wrinkles. “You know you and Lazard make a good team. You challenge each other.”

“I suppose we do.” Veld was right, Lazard _was_ useful. So he would use him. He’d take his advice for now.

Rufus watched as the old Turk reached up and patted a rather startled Tseng on the back. Interesting how Veld had stolen Tseng the moment Rufus had lost him. As if he’d been prepared for it. Expecting it.

There would be time to figure out the Lazard’s motivations later.

If it got him what he needed, Rufus would drag down the heavens.


	4. Chapter 4

** A/N:  ** I think I’ve given up the idea that any chapter in this fic is going to be easy to write. Frankly, they’re all giving me headaches. This particular one wasn’t even part of the plan. Bits and pieces of it were supposed to take place in the last chapter, but honestly, I pretty much went in completely blind.

*presses post button, and then hides in corner*

** Disclaimer: ** I do not own Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core, Advent’s Children, Before Crisis or Dirge of Cerberus, nor do I make any profits due to them.

\---

There had been a time where he held the heavens between his hands and known they that they belonged to him. All those possibilities warm and yielding under his finger tips. Then he had _pulled_.

And they crashed down upon him.

And now what? His body aches. The stars are gone, replaced by the unceasing glare haunting his window.

And he can hear the gulls laughing.

\---

Rufus had to appreciate the irony. Most nineteen year olds were more concerned about money or romance or cars. Bundles of emotions—ignorant, arrogant and naïve—that were easily distracted by anything shiny that crossed their paths. Nineteen was the first time most young men and women looked at their worlds and thought they could truly touch it. Possess it.

Most were not worried that those worlds might be snatched away from them.

The hard slap of leather shoes against the concrete floor seemed much too jarring to Rufus’ legs. The sound of his pant legs brushing sounding too loud and rough to his ears. He had never really paid much attention to his body and now it was making its presence known.

Oh, he was fond of it. With blonde hair with just a hint of red in it, bright blue eyes, and the strong lines to his face, he was well aware that he was strikingly handsome. Even if he wasn’t able to make this judgement, he’d seen too many women eyeing him to think otherwise. He was even more proud of his strength. Years of regular exercise had honed his once lanky figure into a strong, compact form.

But in the end, a body was just a body, little more than a tool. At the moment his seemed defective.

Every touch was jarring. Every sound was blaring. Every sensation bombarded him.

He finally arrived outside the office. The door was made of cold, dark steel only broken the large letters emblazing the words ‘Director of SOLDIER' on it. Rufus barely glanced at it before pushing himself inside.

There sitting at his desk was Lazard, typing away at his computer. When he heard the hiss of the door sliding shut, he looked upward. His features were illuminated by the light of the monitor, making them seem pale and otherworldly. “Mr. Vice President. As to what do I owe this honour?”

Rufus found his gaze flickering around the room. The office was entirely streamlined, all metal, brick and concrete, barely a hint of colour. It was entirely impersonal—no picture or decorations of any kind—nothing that gave the slightest insight into the man who owned it. Or maybe that was an insight all on its own?

“Rufus?”

“I—” This was _not_ the time for weakness. He viciously stomped down on the feelings that threatened to surface, and carefully shrugged as if he’d merely lost his train of thought. That much was true. “How are you doing, Director Deusericus?”

“Just the normal stresses of the job. I thought things would get easier with the War being over… I suppose that was overly optimistic of me,” Lazard replied, the slightest of furrows on his brow. “And you?”

“Much the same. Father has me raising funds for his latest scheme—something about a new mako source. It’s actually going easier than I thought.”

“I’m surprised, considering the taxes on the Slums alone…”

“Well, Father has a saying about that: ‘A man will give his change to a poor person. He’ll give his life to a rich one.’”

Lazard laughed at this, the sound of it a touch too high. “That’s definitely something he would say.”

Rufus’ hands quivered slightly and to preserve the illusion of control, he firmly clasped behind his back. “Ever wondered if he’s right?”

The older man didn’t answer, and looked up at him, pinning Rufus with a speculative gaze. He leaned back in his chair and said: “So Rufus, why are you here?”

This was his second chance and now Rufus was ready for the question, forcing himself to smile. “I thought since you’ve seen my playground, maybe I should see yours.”

There was a long moment where Lazard did nothing, and then finally he laughed again. This time around, it even sounded amused.

\---

A part of him regretted the request as they walked down the hallway containing the training rooms.

The air stunk of sweat. Salt, sour and even… cheese? Ugh. Consciously, he knew he was hypersensitive. His nose, on the other hand, seemed to disagree. It felt like the scents were clinging to the inside of his nostrils.

Even worse was the noise. From every corner of every room came a cacophony of noise. The echoing clashes of swords. The crackle of spells. The banging of flesh on flesh. These were the noises of SOLDIER. And like everything SOLDIER, it was big and loud. Normally he would’ve enjoyed the blunt honesty of it. Shame it felt like it was pounding on his head.

Unbidden, his right hand crept upward on its way to rub his temples. Rufus barely managed to stop it in time.

Lazard noticed anyways. “For what it’s worth, it will improve. I’ve talked to contractors about getting the rooms soundproofed.”

“I am alright. It’s just a headache. Frankly, I’m more interested in your work than the contents of my head. You’ve done an incredible job.” They entered the weight room. “This for example,” he said, gesturing to one of the machines. It was a bench press but instead of weights, it featured a system of levers and pulleys. “When Heidegger was in charge, the machines were the regular kind.” He snorted derisively. “The skinniest Third could easily press the heaviest weight.”

If it wasn’t a headache yet, it would be soon. Between that and the bizarre, almost frantic energy engulfing him, this conversation—simple small talk—was taking up all his concentration. He couldn’t afford it. Not now.

It was a relief when he finally got to the room he’d been looking for, the VR room. They slipped into the observation compartment before the main chamber. The ventilation was better in here and this part at of the training area, at least, had been sound-proofed. It was empty and dark, only lit by a giant monitor adorning a wall.

Lazard cast a lazy look at it. “It seems the room is taken at the moment. If you’d like I can halt the session.”

“No, this is fine. I’d like to see Reeve’s masterpiece in action,” Rufus said. He focused on the screen, the glare of it burning into his eyes. But instead being a further distraction, the pain brought concentration. Clarity.

On it, Sephiroth was facing off against twelve SOLDIERs, all Second Class. The background was a simulated city, the detail was exquisite. If he hadn’t know better, he would’ve thought it was Midgar.

“Quite impressive,” he said. “Shame it still has a few kinks in it. I’m sure you’ve heard.”

“Of course, I have. Reeve is constantly trying to smooth them out. I’ve had to drag him out more than once so the men actually have a chance to use it. He can be remarkably stubborn,” Lazard said. “Thankfully, it’s nothing that interferes with the machine’s performance.”

The SOLDIERs were nervous, their body language screamed of it. Their swords, in guard position, twitched as they prepared for the General. Rufus had to give them credit. For all their fear, they stood their ground.

“I’ve heard that there’s one particular kink that might be seen as annoying. I gather it interferes with external tech,” Rufus mused. “Cell phones, radios, cameras… A rather interesting one, don’t you think?”

Lazard cast a considering look his way. “Ah, _that_ one. As far as I know, it hasn’t been advertised. The Turks wouldn’t like it. They’ve been on especially paranoid since you accused Veld of treason.”

“‘Accused’ is such a finicky word. ‘Revealed’ is much more appropriate.”

He resisted the urge to glance back at the man to check his reactions, instead concentrating on the sight before them. Sephiroth wasn’t bothering to take the offensive. Masamune still sheathed, he gracefully slipped between the blades of his opponents.

“Veld has been with the company since the beginning. I would’ve thought he would be given the benefit of the doubt before assuming anything,” Lazard commented.

This scepticism was part of the problem. The information concerning Veld _should’ve_ been enough. Whereas his father had removed Veld from his position, the rest of the Turks were proving difficult, tearing through documents and chasing down leads until the rings under their eyes were as dark as their clothing.

“Assuming what? His daughter is the leader of a terrorist organization.” When looking into Veld’s past, it had proven an unexpected bonus—a very useful bonus at that. “An organization is that has been receiving massive amounts of funding. An organization that has been receiving information known at the highest level of ShinRa.”

It was frustrating that people couldn’t simply accept this. Veld’s child was a terrorist—there was no shadow of a doubt when it came to this fact. One way or another it made him a problem if not now than later. It was inevitable.

There was a twisting feeling in his gut when he thought about it. So many people willing to look past such a glaring weakness. His father would never approve. A part of Rufus almost…

He was getting distracted again. Now was not the time.

“ShinRa is hardly a group of saints, Rufus. I wouldn’t put it past some of our more ambitious executives to try something,” Lazard said, his tone was laced with a degree of sarcasm. “You may be aware of this.”

And there it was—the meaning clothed in so many layers of politics that it could barely be recognized. Nonetheless he could distinguish it for it was: Lazard _knew._

The fact didn’t particularly bother Rufus. If anything it made things easier.

“So how is General Sephiroth doing?” Rufus said, changing the subject. “I imagine Genesis’ disappearance is hitting him hard. I gather they were friends.”

“All things considered, he’s handling things quite well. At the end of the day, Sephiroth is a professional. He’s well aware that friendships can be temporary in our line of work.”

“And yourself? How are you doing?” Rufus asked, preparing himself.

“The same as I was a few minutes ago.”

“I mean about losing Genesis,” Rufus elaborated.

“Pardon me?” There was a hint of confusion in Lazard’s voice at the comment. He really was an excellent actor.

“You waited nearly a month longer than normal to list him missing in action. Were you two close?”

“No, I simply don’t underestimate the capabilities of Firsts, especially one of Genesis’ calibre. They can certainly take care of themselves.”

“Undoubtedly. But you didn’t list him a deserter either? It seems odd, especially considering the number of your men that disappeared with him.” In fact that was what had caused him Rufus to investigate in the first place. It had been an interesting challenge, prying into a person’s activities without the aid of the Turks. A satisfying one at that.

“With his history? Genesis has proven to be one of our most exemplary officers, time and time again. To say he’s a traitor without further investigation would seem rash, no?” The words left Lazard mouth and met dead air.

Rufus had never said Genesis was a traitor.

Meanwhile, one of the Seconds—face obscured by a helmet—apparently had a brain in his head because he started barking out orders, rallying his fellow combatants. Bit by bit, under his instructions they regrouped. Five of them attacked Sephiroth head-on, but as soon as the General’s blade rose to meet them, they dashed backward. There was a crackle as a Bolt spell rushed through the air towards Sephiroth. The flash of the lightning caused the view to obscured by smoke.

Turning to face him, Lazard gracefully plucked a pair of silver-rimmed glasses from his breast pocket.

“I haven’t seen you wear those before,” Rufus noted.

“They’re new. One of the more subtle scars of age… I’ve been avoiding using them. Living in denial, I suppose. Quite silly of me really.”  Lazard produced a small swathe of white cotton and gently cleaned the lenses of the glasses. He brought them up to eye level, and apparently satisfied, casually slipped them onto his face. Then he looked directly at Rufus, his glasses reflecting the glare of monitor, flickering red, yellow and green. “So… what do you _really_ want, Rufus?”

The smoke cleared away and there Sephiroth stood unharmed, emerald-green eyes lazily assessing his opponents. Then he _attacked_.

“An alliance of sorts,” Rufus replied. He unabashedly watched Lazard now, trying to get some insight into what the other man was thinking. “You need money for your agenda and I have that in surplus.”

“I have my ways of getting it.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” Rufus said. “A bit here and there. I’ve noticed how you’ve been using Slum workers and contractors for a number of improvements in the ShinRa training facility, like this one for matter of fact.” He gestured grandly to the VR room. “On paper, you pay them as much as much as you would above-Plate ones. I imagine they’re so desperate to get the business that they don’t question how much money they receive.—Quite impressive, I must admit.”

“And if it’s so impressive, why should I need you?”

On the screen, the Seconds were sprawled across the floor, scattered like leaves to the wind. Only one remained upright, the helmeted one.

“There’s a good chance if you keep it up someone other than myself will eventually figure it out. You said it yourself: the Turks are on alert. I can provide more money through less… _conspicuous_ channels.”

“And what would you want in return?” Lazard asked, idly tugging at the base of one of his gloves.

“Only your influence. Veld may have been removed as commander of the Turks, but he still remains at ShinRa. Considering his connection to his rebel daughter, it would be preferable for him to be retired. Convince my father to do so and have him make the rest of the Turks stand down their investigations into the matter.” Rufus considered something for a moment, and then added: “Retired in the literal, not the metaphorical, sense just to be clear.”

He watched Lazard and silently applauded. There was no tightening of his hands, nor sweat on his brow, and his face sported a carefully neutral expression. However it was a something of a nuisance to Rufus, reading Lazard’s body was like reading a puppet in an attempt to figure out what the puppeteer was thinking. Or maybe the poorly lit room was hiding such reactions. After all, the darkness of the venue was appropriate place for creatures such as them.

Rufus stood there, waiting, his shoulders squared and his hands clasped behind his back as to hide their trembling. Utterly annoying that he was unable to control his own body’s reaction. He felt a trace of envy when comparing it to the older man’s control.

Helmet was falling back with Sephiroth closely following. He was attempting to draw him away from the other SOLDIERs, desperately trying to give them time to recover. It was working too. A few of the other Seconds regained their feet and seeing their comrade in trouble, preparing to attack while the General’s back was turned.

“I suppose Veld’s absence could be…” Lazard said quietly. “It would take time for a replacement to adjust to the job.”

Lazard was still a touch taller than him, Rufus noticed. A little bit wider in the shoulders as well. He gazed down at Rufus, and finally Rufus got a chilling insight into the other man. The tilt of Lazard’s head, the press of his lips together, the way his ice-blue eyes examined him as if he were a mildly interesting object, not a person at all.

Rufus distantly wondered if Lazard realised how much he resembled the President at that moment.

One way or another, it made him not the least bit surprised by what happened next and Rufus watched silently as Sephiroth noticed the approaching Seconds. Where once the General had stood, now there was a whirlwind of black and silver.

“No,” Lazard said.

And just like that the energy that had been aggravating Rufus drained away.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“This conversation will stay between us?”

“Certainly.” Each knew too much about the other for anything else.

The screen no longer seemed to glare as much. The smells and noises coming from the training area more muted. It left a sort of hollowness in its wake.

The battle ended quickly enough after that. Sephiroth strode through the observation chamber, giving the slightest nod towards the executives before leaving. A little while later, the Second Class SOLDIERs stumbled out as well.

He spared them no pity. They would have been foolish to expect any other outcome.

“Rufus?”

He turned to look at the older man. “Yes?”

“Stop trying to be your father. It doesn’t suit you.”  
  
Lazard's expression might as well been a doll's for all the insight Rufus could glean from it.


	5. Chapter 5

** A/N:  ** I’ll attempt to get out the final chapter within a week.

** Disclaimer: ** I do not own Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core, Advent’s Children, Before Crisis or Dirge of Cerberus, nor do I make any profits due to them.

\---

He keeps on reaching for things that will never be his.

He keeps on hoping for things that can never be.

The man is a fool. He always has been and always will be one.

Only in his dreams has he ever been anything else.

And gulls won’t let him sleep, and the smell and sound of the surf won’t let him pretend.

So even his delusions are stolen from him.

Failure.

\---

He was twenty-three and Junon was really… what exactly? How did one even describe it?

The room he stood in boasted enormous windows, spanning from wall to wall, floor to ceiling. There was a screen door that led to a balcony and beyond that the coast.

Most people saw Rufus’ living in Junon as a gift from his father, a paternal gesture of trust and love and probably a slew of other sickly sweet things. He’d heard them babbling about it, sometimes directly to him, or among themselves, or even by great orators on the radio. How lucky Rufus is that his father gave him a _city_.

He almost wished he could believe them, but his father had taught him too well.

Money got you raw resources: people, materials, tools and land. But they were nothing without words. The right words could make a powerful kingdom or bring one crashing down. They could cause people to rise up or fall down, quaking at your feet. They could hide things in plain sight or make a person see something that wasn’t there. Humans might claim the titles, but words were the true builders and healers, and twisters and destroyers.

Officially speaking, he was here on an extended business trip—the young heir of ShinRa Incorporated taking a personal interest in the economic dealings and the general well-being of the largest port city of the Eastern Continent.

How wonderful! How caring! How moronic!

If one simply looked past the company line and saw the truth beneath, the reality was that it was an exile wrapped in a shiny red ribbon. His past plans had collapsed in on themselves. His actions revealed. His fate sealed.

The few tasks he had were pointless, fancy little things. Theoretically, he had the meagre task of overseeing the supplies being set back and forth by the cargo ships, but for most part the other executives did it without him. His only real duty was attending parties and openings.

Dance and bare a grin while the world spun out of reach.

He opened the screen door. The setting sun, out of sight, cast its last lazy beams unto the water. Logically he knew there were places beyond the sea despite that, the sea seemed to stretch on and on, endless and eternal and barren.

Rufus opened the screen door, closed his eyes and waited.

He opened them again to the sound of wings.

A figure stood on the balcony. His face was lined with wrinkles and his hair uniform grey, a visage that befit a man twice his age. His features had changed too, nose and chin broader, his glasses missing. On the right side of his back, he sported two wings, both white--but while one was large and majestic, the other was small and stunted.

So very different from what he remember, but Rufus would know this man anywhere. “Lazard, I was wondering if you’d come.”

“I have to admit, I’m a bit surprised to be here,” Lazard said dryly. “Though I suppose some things are easier to do in twilight.”

“So your visit here, was that your choice or _his_ influence?” he asked, gesturing to the wings.

“His entirely,” was the wry answer. “I have never been prone to sentiment.”

The older man’s voice hadn’t changed at least, Rufus noted, as smooth and as in control as always. It was nice to see some things didn’t change.

“So, you were expecting me?” Lazard asked, raising an eyebrow at the still open door.

“I suspected you were in the area. Junon is a busy place. You have lots of people coming in from the outskirts on a regular basis. Rumours of an ‘angel’ tend to draw attention in the right quarters,” Rufus replied. “You ought to be more careful.”

Recently, he’d managed to scrape up a small information network. Not that there was much pride in it; it was nothing compared to the Turks or his old network which the Turks had systematically destroyed. Even so, it gave him little scraps of data, little glimpses of the world he was no longer a part of.

Some days, he thought it was the only thing keeping him sane.

Other days, he wondered if it made things worse.

“I’ll do that. But honestly, Rufus? If I had been Genesis, would standing around the window and leaving the door open be the most sensible course of action?” Lazard stopped at this and then sighed at his own mistake.

“A door would hardly stop him, should he want to enter,” Rufus pointed out.

It was a bit strange seeing Lazard off kilter. The older man rarely made errors however minor… well, other than the obvious one. Six years ago, Rufus might have even rubbed Lazard’s nose in it—to borrow the idiom—but there seemed little point to such antics now. There had long since stopped being any room for childishness in his life. If they ever had been.

“Besides, I’m not entirely unprepared,” he said, walking deeper into the room, pausing only to beckon to the other man. Lazard hesitated for a moment then followed. Rufus walked over to a free-standing bar tucked into a corner, he reached behind it, pulling up his shotgun, letting Lazard see it before putting it back.

“Why did no one think of that before?” Lazard didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm. “Clearly no one has tried to _shoot_ Genesis.”

“Actually it’s just a distraction to give time for these.” He pointed downward.

“Combat boots?” Lazard said, sceptically examining the brown leather, thick-gripped shoes that adorned Rufus’s feet.

“Legs. To run away. I’m not _entirely_ suicidal.”

Lazard brought one gloved hand up to his mouth, using the back of it to stifle something that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

\---

A little while later, Rufus had liberated a few other denizens of the bar, the distinctly non-firepowered variety, a wine bottle and two glasses.

He had situated himself on a coach whereas Lazard, due to the awkwardness of his extra appendages, was forced to sit on a foot stool. It was a rather unusual perch, and Rufus supposed if he were a better host, he should’ve done something similar—the coffee table, perhaps.

But the coffee tabletop was glass and there was only the one foot rest. The only other option was the floor and Rufus was incapable of being _that_ good a person.

Anyhow, Lazard, in his rather infuriating way, somehow managed to make it look like the most natural and dignified seat in the world. At the moment, he was reading the label of the wine bottle. “Banora White Apple Wine. _Rufus?_ ”

“It’s ’74. I gather that’s a good year,” Rufus said, attempting to sound innocent. “I thought you might’ve developed a taste.”

Lazard apparently didn’t buy it, shooting an annoyed look at the younger man, but it didn’t last long, his eyes moving back to the bottle, seemingly of their own accord. “Perhaps…” He gently traced the letters of the label. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

Rufus passed him the glasses and watched as Lazard gripped the top of the cork between two fingers, and then effortlessly pulled it out. There was a strength there that, while not readily apparent, was definitely present. He seriously doubted it had been there before. Fascinating.

After the glasses had been filled up and the bottle placed on the coffee table, Rufus found himself at a loss for words. Rufus knew a million ways to make conversation, but none of them seemed appropriate. He couldn’t exactly ask about the other man’s stock options, could he now? Still, he wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Lazard somehow managed to keep up on such matters, it would be just like him.

Lazard finally rescued him. “You have a... _unique_ place here,” he said eyeing the room. 

The suite was for the President’s occasional visit to Junon. It wasn’t as large as one might imagine—the kitchen, dinning room and living rooms all combined into one—but the ceiling was high and the decorations ornate. Plush, royal purple rugs lay on alabaster marble floor, and the walls were red stone with spaces for books and vases carved in. There was a chandelier of all things over the dinning table.

“It’s not mine. It’s Father’s.” So much money aimed at impressing. His father wasn’t there, but in this place, he was everywhere. Rufus had never been given the option to stay anywhere else.

At least he wasn’t forced to sleep in his father’s bed; there was a separate room that he had used when he was young and the President brought him along. Back when Father couldn’t bear to be parted from his personal show dog.

“It shows.”

“Does it now?”

“Yes,” Lazard affirmed. “Given your privileged childhood, it’s normal you’d never appreciate the fancier things in life. Oh, you can handle them better than most people. Even find purpose in them.” He took a sip of his drink. “But like them? Like that suit of yours...”

“What about it?”

“Black and white, rather uncreative don’t you think?”

“But it goes with everything,” Rufus said sardonically. “Besides, I think I cut a rather dramatic figure.”

“I never said it was a bad thing, just an observation.”

Yes, because calling someone ‘uncreative’ was the peak of manners. But Rufus ignored the barb and instead focused on the scenery out the window.

“You may have a point. Perhaps I prefer to get to heart of a situation and not circle around it.” Flair he understood, but this endless politicking of his father’s…

He caught sight of his reflection in the window’s surface, the image of himself unrecognizable, melting into the Junon Cannon behind it. It’s huge barrel reached out of its proud steel throne and dwarfing all beneath it. Still, when held up to the sea, it was tiny in comparison. 

“Do you know how many times that thing has been fired?” Rufus asked, indicating to the cannon.

“Why do you ask?”

“It was designed to protect our inter-continental supply lines from the Wutaian Navy… Utter nonsense. It takes forever to charge between shots.—Gods forbid that they attack us with more than one ship. Never mind that Wutai’s ‘navy’ consisted mainly of fishing boats.

“It’s been fired only a few times—three exactly. Each time with a great deal media buzz and ceremony while the teeming masses fawning over it. Any real power it possesses so completely buried that no one sees it. Understand?”

“I think I do,” Lazard said.

“You do, don’t you?”

“It was designed to be a giant penis. I think the President’s a touch insecure.”

Rufus stared at him. “Pardon me?”

Lazard noticed the younger man’s expression, then said: “What? I _did_ grow up in the Slums. Vulgar humour is hardly something I’m unfamiliar with.”

It took a minute, but eventually Rufus recovered and spared him a faint smile. “Perhaps if things had been different, you’d have been stuck here as well.”

“I would never have let that happen,” Lazard said simply.

“And why is that?”

The older man gave a considering that lasted a long time before he finally said: “What do you know of your mother?”

The question caught Rufus off guard, the glass nearly falling from between his fingers. It wasn’t the first time that someone had asked about her, but from this quarter...

“I’ve read the articles concerning her, but when taking the source into account, I wasn’t sure if they were accurate,” Lazard continued.

Rufus gazed into the amber-filled confines of his glass. He’s never been one for drinking, having watched too many liquor-sodden men and women at celebrations his father threw. They fell all over themselves with manic grins and jolly dispositions, as if everything around them was as bright and cheerful as they were. Then they’d wake up the next morning and realise that they’d signed their lives and livelihood to ShinRa.

“Actually, they’re surprisingly so,” he said, taking a deep draught of wine. “She divorced my father when I was three.” The only thing not mentioned is the reason, but he didn’t mention that. Lazard was an intelligent man; there was no reason for Rufus to bring up an uncomfortable subject which the man was already intimately familiar with. “She got a million gil, my father got me.” Bought and paid for. “I haven’t seen her in years, though I gather she’s remarried recently if that’s of interest.”

Lazard cocked his head slightly to the side. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” And he was at that. Prior to the Veld incident, Rufus had privately looked into it, trying to find any hint of foul play, of his mother being pressured or threatened. He’d come out empty-handed.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not necessary.” He didn’t want or need sympathy. Why mourn the absence of a woman who hadn’t wanted him? At least his father had wanted him even if it was for dubious reasons.

For a moment he thought of the Turks. Not Veld or  Reno or Rude.

Miyuki who had always hated being seen as maternal, but nonetheless who had always been there. Veld had sent her on assignment and soon after, she was gone. Her features slowly fading in the confines of his memory.

Tseng who had been more of a teacher than a bodyguard. Still alive but completely out of reach. After Veld had been forced to flee and Rufus’ plans had been revealed, he had lost Tseng as surely as Miyuki. His last memories of the Turk were of a calm voice explaining the terms of his exile. He’d wanted to explain, but then he had looked into the black pits of Tseng’s eyes, the words turning to ash on his tongue.

“So,” he said, “what does my mother have to do with anything?”

Lazard eyed him, his gaze faintly glowing, and then he sighed. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Why not? I told you what you wanted to know.”

“Double standards. I’m certainly used to them. Maybe it’s time for a reversal.”

Rufus didn’t react to the unfairness of the statement. This was an old game that he was all too familiar with. If he wanted a proper response he should’ve first got a guarantee before offering the information freely. Those were the rules; it was foolish to think it could be any other way.

“So should things change, if you got a second chance, what would you do?” Another demand for information. By all that Rufus knew, he should have used it to his advantage, find a way to grasp some tiny piece of information about the other man.

He didn’t though. Frankly, he was sick of the damn game, and oddly enough he was enjoying the company. Perhaps it was cruel of him, but Rufus felt oddly comforted by the fact that he hadn’t been the only one whose plans had fallen apart so completely.

“I thought I might take your advice,” he said. “Stop trying to be my father.”

“Is that so?”

“Less of this ‘buying the world’ as Father calls it.” Rufus would keep some. A healthy dose of propaganda could be used to grease the wheels per say, but the complete excess that his father indulged in would be a thing of the past.

Lazard leaned forward, his small wing brushing against the foot stool’s upholstery. “Then how would you get things done?”

“Bluntness. Less politics and bribery, begging people to respect me.” If anything it allowed them to tie leashes around his neck. “If they won’t do as I say, I’ll _make_ them.”

Up until now, Lazard’s gaze was curious, but all at once it evaporated. “Oh, so that’s how it is.”

“Yes.”

“I should have known.”

Rufus had answered honestly. He wasn’t about to apologize for it.

Deep cracks pushed into the features of Lazard’s face, his expression darkening. “You’re just another good, little executive. Out only for yourself.”

“Would you preferred if I had lied?” Rufus asked.

Lazard ignored him. “Another selfish ShinRa. I should have known… I should’ve known… ” he muttered.

He pushed himself to his feet, his wings sending a torrent of wind through the air. “I should’ve known better than to think there was any hope for one of _your_ family _._ ”

Your family. _Your_ family.Rufus’ family. That small, seemingly insignificant emphasis.

“ _My_ family,” Rufus said. “So think you can hold yourself apart?”

“Yes.”

“You think you’re better?”

“Yes.”

“Truly?”

“Yes.”

Rufus had done his best to be accommodating. He had been polite. He had been honest. And this was all he got. He should’ve known… “So I’m scum, wallowing in filth, and you’re some sort of saint. Don’t delude yourself, Lazard. You’re as disgusting as the rest of us.”

Relaxing into the leather of his couch, Rufus looked up into the other man’s eyes. They were two pools of liquid fire.

Rufus didn’t even flinch.

“Do you know what the SOLDIERs used to call you?” Rufus asked calmly. He didn’t bother to wait for an answer. “‘The ideal boss.’ Not only did they think you were a superb paper pusher, but they truly thought you were their friend. They thought you genuinely cared about them. Even years after your treachery was revealed, many of them refused to believe it. They couldn’t accept that you were capable of betraying them.

“I wonder… how many of your loyal admirers died because of your little exploits? How many were cut down by Genesis or his Copies, all the while still trusting that you had their best interests at heart.”

“They were _ShinRa_. They deserved it,” Lazard growled.

Rufus watched impassively as Lazard’s large wing convulsed, slamming into the wine bottle and shattering it against the wall. The soft tinkle of broken glass was so different from the brutal movement. Then he continued. “Perhaps, but let’s not stop there. They were hardly the only victims.—While you were happily funding Genesis, he went on to destroy much more than a few dozen ShinRa workers. Does Banora ring a bell… or how about Modeoheim? Or how about the war machines and Genesis Copies that ravaged Midgar? Above _and_ below Plate. I’m sure all those poor people in the Slums that you claim to care about absolutely loved that.”

“Things got out of control. I did my best to contain them,” Lazard said, his gloved hands tightly grasped the fabric of his pants.

“I don’t doubt that,” Rufus stated. “But you claim to be better than ShinRa, but you came and joined us in the filth.  If you wanted, you could've walked.  _You had the choice._

“Then there’s your choice of allies. I find that especially pathetic. I make no claims of being a good man, but Genesis and Hollander? They’re a special sort of monster and you picked them over me.”

Lazard let out a rasping, unsettling sort of sound. It took Rufus a moment to realise that it was laughter.

“Is that what this is about, Rufus?” Lazard growled. “You talk about all the horrible things I had a hand in and then you drag it back to yourself. It’s all about you, isn’t it Rufus? So, do you want to know why I wouldn’t work with you? _Do you?_ ”

Despite himself, Rufus couldn’t stop himself from asking: “Why?”

“I just wanted you out of the way,” Lazard hissed.

Rufus felt a chill descend upon him. “So you could become vice president?”

Lazard’s lips ripped back to reveal white, white teeth. “You think that was the reason? The President offered me the job multiple times, long before he even considered you. I could’ve had it whenever I wanted… You really don’t get it, do you? You’re the deluded one. You think you were an issue? A threat? You never were and you never will be.”

And then in a low voice, Lazard whispered: “ _You don’t matter, Rufus._ ”

Rufus’ hand hurt.

It hurt. Why did it hurt?

Rufus found him standing in the middle of the floor.

His hand. The hurting hand. It was balled into a fist, the skin of his first and second knuckle split, and there was a spray of (so very) red leading up from it and onto the (once pure, but never again) white of his jacket.

He mechanically looked upward. There was a man looking back at him. He had (pretty) wings on his back. The man’s bottom lip was getting blood all over the floor.

“I would like you to leave, Mr. Deusericus,” Rufus said quietly.

Lazard stood there, completely frozen.

“Leave.”

After a long moment, Lazard finally started to regain himself. His mouth moving silently for a few minutes before anything emerged. “I… I…”

“ _Leave!_ ” Rufus screamed. He stumbled towards the bar, grasping at the shotgun hidden there, but his fingers refused to work. Numbly they slipped and slid across the surface of the gun, refusing to find purchase.

At long last, he grasped it, and he whirled around only to find—

He had gotten his wish.

He was alone.

\---

Lazard died a month later.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Frankly, I’m not the least bit sure how well this story turned out, but I’m glad I did and I really appreciate all of you who have shared your thoughts with me. Your comments and insights have been interesting and inspiring. Thanks again.  
  
For those who may be interested. I'll probably write an afterword in a couple days or so. Mainly because I think I need to get it out of my system.

** Disclaimer: ** I do not own Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core, Advent’s Children, Before Crisis or Dirge of Cerberus, nor do I make any profits due to them.

\---

The face in the mirror is different. The skin is dry and pale--parchment with smatterings of blue, black and purple ink across its surface, bruises. The eyes are sad things, vague watery blue trying to hide behind too prominent cheekbones. Below them is sickly flesh riddled with webs of dark veins. The hair, once red and gold, is now faded, the colour drained away.

Rufus takes this all in silently. One hand softly touches the changes, fingers gently skimming wrinkles before twining themselves with the loose end of the bandage surrounding his head, affirming to himself that this is real. Still there is little doubt in the matter; it is done more for more for posterity’s sake.

A few hours ago, someone had come to check upon him. She’d been young, an intern perhaps. The girl had been machine-like in her motions, checking and changing bandages in an utterly detached manner, overwork and fatigue having driven her to be little more than a drone. She’d blathered about Potion and materia shortages and how his injuries didn’t matter; then, she’d gone on to make insincere apologies.

It’d been only after she finished that she had blinked those dull cow-eyes of hers and finally remembered to ask his name.

‘Rufus’ had met with no real reaction, only the scribble of pen on paper. ‘ShinRa’ on the other hand… Admiration. Fear. Sadness. Anger. Doubt. Her expression had frantically danced through them all then back again.

Eventually she’d settled on doubt as if she couldn’t believe the person before her could possibly be anyone that significant. She had dutifully written this down and then excused herself.

He can’t say that he particularly blames her. He barely recognizes himself.

Nonetheless, the sight in the mirror meets with hardly any surprise, merely a sense of déjà vu. It’s as if the frail man he sees has always been there. Waiting for him.

He turns away roughly, treading back towards the bed, stretching his legs into long prideful strides.

It doesn’t last.

Suddenly everything _twists_ , nausea and dizziness wrapping around him like a blanket. His bare feet pull away from the cold floor and he desperately reaches out towards the bed frame, trying to break his fall, but his arms fall short and he hits the ground.

Hip first. Then shoulder. Then head. And he lies there.

There’s a popping sound, a wave of pain, and then sticky wetness trickles down his right side, the faint scent of iron filling the air.

It occurs to him he must look a weak little creature, his armour of rich silk and wool replaced a flimsy cotton hospital gown, his body weak, bleeding and broken. Utterly pathetic. No, he certainly couldn’t blame the girl for not recognizing him.

What would his father think if he saw him like this?

It’s a masochistic question if there’s ever been one. Father wouldn’t think anything. He would have walked right by without giving him a second thought. Father never had time for losers. They were beneath contempt. Losers were the worst after all.

All those tiny victories of his life, countless in number though they may have been, added up to nothing. Anything he’d really wanted had slipped through his fingers, gone the moment he tried to touch them. All his attempts ending in failure.

AVALANCHE. Sephiroth. Meteor. Tseng.

AVALANCHE. They should have been a minor nuisance; they were little more than a group of muscled-bound thugs nipping at his heels. After all his father had brought them down with little more than a thought, but instead they’d cut Rufus off at every end, winning every battle.

Sephiroth and Meteor. It should have been the time him to show the world that he was more than just his father’s son. That he could be a protector and not just a destroyer. Not only had he lost repeatedly, but he’d failed Midgar, dooming her to destruction.

Tseng… There was now a wall between them than could never completely be breached. Never mind the fact that the Turk very well might be dead, buried in the ruins of Rufus’ home.

He had all the might of ShinRa at his beck and call, and he’d failed again and again and again.

_ You don’t matter, Rufus. _

It had been foolish of Rufus to think it could be any other way.

There had been hints strung through his entire life. He’d watched as the men and women of his father’s company had laden him compliments and presents all the while never actually caring what he thought. The media had buzzed around him like flies to rotten meat but never asking him anything of substance, because, honestly, what would the spoiled brat have to say? Heidegger had dismissed him, only following orders grudgingly and under duress. His father had treated him as little more than a shiny puppet. They all had known.

Lazard had known. He’d even offered the knowledge freely. But Rufus had refused it. Avoided it. Turned himself inside out in an attempt to deny it. Because deep down Rufus had known too.

Always known that all that mattered about him was ShinRa, never Rufus. Now ShinRa was gone; his father’s careful work of decades destroyed within mere months of Rufus’ ‘New Era’.

So now he didn’t matter at all. So Rufus just lies there.

He probably should call for help. He doesn’t though. However far he’s fallen, he _refuses_ be reduced to a beggar, pleading for some tiny scrap of attention. It may be arrogant, but he will cling whatever foolishness he can find.

There’s a dull tickling sensation on the tip of his nose and Rufus angrily grabs the culprit—a lock of blond-grey hair lying across his face. He viscously rips it off his head, ignoring the stinging of his scalp.

Pain he can handle. Let the world bring it on. Bring it all on. Pain is nothing. If it will bring him some modicum of dignity. If it will let him have some peace. Because he’s tired. He’s always been tired and—

\---

...and he’s five again, having a temper tantrum in a stairwell.

He stares at the figure towering over him. The tears burn hot in eyes, warping everything in sight.

He’d thought he’d found someone. Someone real _._

Instead he found another fake.

Pretending to care about him. Pretending just like everyone else. Like they always did. Like they always would.

And the ShinRa building is a giant dollhouse and everyone inside is making pretend. And all he wants is to stop.And it hurts and...

And for a moment, the veil of tears parts and he gazes up at Lazard. The older boy’s hand is reaching out towards him and those blue eyes—so much like Rufus’ own—look at him with _concern_.

\---

…and he hears a gentle rustling of feathers coming from the open window.

Rufus forces himself up and onto unsteady feet and slowly, tentatively walks toward the window. A cold salty breeze flows in, icy hands touching the wound in his side, soothing the ache—while the glare filtering in harshly scours his eyes.

Finally, he reaches the window and Rufus sees them. The gulls.

They fly over the sea, singing rough unpractised songs that mix with the sound of the brutal surf. They soar, heading upward. Up above the barren coast. Up above the endless waves. Up above the clouds. Up and up and up.

In the morning sun, their wings look almost white.

And then they’re gone.

_ Brother… _


	7. Afterword

Okay the damn fic is over with and I am both pleased and greatly relieved. Mainly because the darn thing was STALKING me, I ended thinking about it at least once every hour, frequently at inconvenient times. You'd think that would make it easier to write; unfortunately, no such luck, I'd go hours with only half a page written.  
  
Now as for an afterword, it would be cool if I could write something cool and insightful and appropriate that suits 'All That Never Was' to a tee... but who am I kidding? I don't have the patience so I'm just going to blab a bit about where this fic came for - mainly because I'd like to record it for my own sake. I can't promise this blab will be sophisticated or meaningful or particularly well written, so read on at your own risk.  
  
The very first image in that fic comes from a rather unusual place. I was sixteen and about fourteen hours earlier the rest of my orchestra and I had arrived in Aberdeen, Scotland to take part of the international youth festival of the arts. After an incredibly long flight with only a short two hour break between that a rehearsal and a late evening performance before, finally, I was able to crash--it had been an exhausting day.  
  
There was surprisingly cool breeze slipping through the crack of the window. The bed was a foreign creature, small and confining to my long limbs, the room vague and indistinct to in the dim, ethereal light. So strange, but I simply didn't care, there was no energy left in my heavy limbs and so I slept and it seemed so very good. Then a few hours later, when the first sparks of sunlight filtered into the courtyard, _they_ arrived--the gulls--and they sang.  
  
THE BLOODY THINGS WOKE ME UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
  
AFTER A NEARLY TWENTY HOUR FLIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
  
AT 4:00 AM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
  
$#$#(*)(*@*$)(*@)($*@&*&$*&%*($&%(*$&(%&($#*&%$(!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
  
The next day, all the people staying at the youth festival got together. It was a touching scene. Canadians (my group), Americans, Irish, Scottish, Netherlanders, Chinese, Albanians, Filipinos, Japanese and English all together and collectively bitched about how much we hated the bloody birds. We all seriously debated the merits of chipping together and purchasing a BB gun one of us had spotted in a store window, including a few self-confessed Buddhists and Vegans.  
  
Considering it got us and the Americans to stop arguing about who one the 1812 War for two seconds (Canada did by the way), it just goes to show that you should not mess with teenagers' sleep patterns.  
  
This leads to years later where the gulls took on a entirely different meaning than the real life one. I was reading about various FFVII characters via wiki and I was fascinated to discover than Rufus ShinRa, a character who always struck me as an enigma during the movies and the original game, had an older half-brother named Lazard. The notion interested me quite a lot and so I used my Google Fu to attempt to find a story featuring them. I found some but nowhere near as many as I'd have liked.  
  
After being somewhat disappointed, the concept of writing my own ticked me. I figured I'd write a short one-shot prior to Lazard's death. But even as I pictured the concept in my head, I discovered a problem--to write the story, I needed backstory. So I figured I'd write three loosely connected one-shots spaced over Rufus' life, my original concept being the last one. Then to my abject horror, the connector turned into a monster making the story way more complicated than I originally intended thanks to the gulls of my 'precious' memory for flying into the story all by themselves.   
  
Writing this fic was like herding cats. While somethings I did succeed in planning, various other concepts went in directions I never would've suspected.  
  
Remember Miyuki? I only made her because I didn't think that Tseng was old enough to be Rufus' bodyguard when Rufus was five. I figured I'd kill her off and have Tseng take over in the second chapter. Yeah, that's right I Fridged Miyuki. I'm a bad person; I created a female character for the soul purpose of killing her off so I might further the plot line of a male character. For what it's worth, I paid for it. Somehow, she seriously affected the story. She even went and developed a personality and a history. I even have a one-shot with her perspective on the relationship between Rufus and his father sitting at the back of my mind which I'm seriously tempted to write.  
  
The whole Turk subplot? Didn't expect that. At all. It more or less took off on it's own in the middle of chapter two. Miyuki's fault.  
  
Rufus didn't cooperate either. He started out similar to the version of Rufus in my ['Flicks of Dirt'](http://teekoness.livejournal.com/17816.html#cutid1) but his personality kinda morphed as I was writing him. Now that it's all over, all I can think regarding him is 'Rufus, find a psychiatrist. A very good psychiatrist.' He's an interesting character being both intelligent and observant; while at the same time, he's an unreliable narrator to boot.  
  
Almost every chapter was a bit of a blank slate. I knew what I wanted to happen, but I had no clue _how_ is was going to happen.  
  
As for Lazard... Someone asked me a few days ago whether he was supposed to be a jerk or a good guy or a whatever. Honestly I purposely left that up for grabs. I do sort of hope that people reread the fic after seeing where it ends as I wrote it with that in mind.  
  
So this fic marks the second longest thing I've ever written. It was frustrating and exhausting to do (especially considering I do most of my best writing after midnight). But all things considered, while I think I may go back and rework the first chapter, I'm nonetheless pretty content.


End file.
